


Adamant Heart

by zarinthel



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Gen, Trans!Logan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22289878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarinthel/pseuds/zarinthel
Summary: gift for @lemonsspliceprompt: wolverine xman but trans
Kudos: 14





	Adamant Heart

Logan stood in front of the bathroom mirror, failing eyes squinting at the glass. For such a nice hotel, it sure had some shitty mirrors. He’d peeled off his top to get a better look at where the bullets went in, and he was in for it this time. Fuckers. 

Squeezing your pecs until a bullet popped out was one thing, but he’s pretty sure one of them got stuck square in his left tit. It’s all fat in there, and other shit he doesn’t need. 

...

Well, it’s not like he’s got that much longer to live, anyway. He can just leave the damn thing, so it’s ache and keep the rest of his fucked up rips company. That’s what normal people do, right? They just leave the bullets in, and the body heals around it.

Crazy. 

The little girl’d picked up some pink plastic sunglasses at the convenience store, before she’d nearly killed the clerk. 

You can get away with a lot, but--

Logan grinds his teeth, grabbing a hold of the sink as he vomits up whatever other metal’d gotten stuck in his gut. The grey glints out of the blood that coats the drain. Everything tastes like he’d blacked out and straight up eaten a gun, which he’s pretty sure is not what happened. 

_It could happen_ , whispers in the back of his mind. 

Shut up. 

The girl likes X-Man comics. So she knows who Charles is, what he can do. What he could do, when he was a saner, younger man. He’s old and senile now, just like all of them. 

He was lonely, Logan thinks. He was alone. 

They had all been alone, and now they were sharing a one room suite of a Las Vegas hotel room in clothes bought straight off a mannequin. And his limousine full of buckshot, sitting outside. 

The girl had shown him up big time, back at the warehouse. He hadn’t-- he hadn’t realized how far he’d slipped. Rung by rung from his glory days to whatever this was. He was even getting kicked around by stupid fucking white adidas punks now, was he?

Logan spits blood at his own face in the mirror. 

She doesn’t know anything. Not what death means, not what life means. Some stupid stories about the X-men. A nurse who willingly gave her life to save her, gave her a name, who loved her. 

Who’d begged him--

He needs to focus on the problem at hand. 

Namely, his fucking shirt was ruined. And he wasn’t a bra type of guy, didn’t need that type of shit in his life. Whatever... he’d just do it the old fashioned way. He slips his jacket back on, zipping it back up. Were he a younger man, he’d just do it tits out, but--

He’s not as young as he used to be, and this jacket’s made of fucking corduroy. Mustard corduroy. The look just wouldn’t be there. Logan glances back at the open door, where Laura’s putting on her boots. 

He can hear Charles in his mind. Not literally, of course, and not the Charles of now, who’s eyes lose focus on where he is, what he’s doing. 

When he’d been an X-Man. 

When it hadn’t mattered how much he got shot, where he got shot, who was shooting at him. He was invincible, or close enough. Look at him, he can’t die! Mostly. 99.99% Invincible. 

“Logan,” Charles had said. “I believe in you, in the good you do. You deserve this-- you deserve a _family.”_

Charles can’t even remember Logan’s face half the time. Logan’s hacking up his own lungs, little piece by bloody piece. And the girl and Charles are out there watching what-- old spaghetti western shoot em ups?

He hadn’t known Charles even liked them. 

Is that his fault? It somehow feels like it. 

The girl hasn’t spoken a word to him. He doesn’t even think she speaks English. If she knows how to speak at all. He doesn’t know anything about child pysch, he’s not suited for--

She’s not his _daughter._

_“You may not love her, but--”_

Logan punches the wall, even though that now does a lot more to his messed up knuckles than is worth it. As if it was ever worth it. 

They’ve got his DNA. They used it, used to-- 

She’s got knives coming out of her fucking feet, her tiny feet. Did they do that on purpose? No, the hands don’t hurt enough, their not lethal enough. She needs little baby knives in her baby feet, to kick nasty men in their tiny dicks. 

Bet they regret that feature now, those sick bastards. 

He’ll make them regret it. 

Logan stalks back into the room, where both of them look at him. It feels like a sitcom start. Three generations in one room: no relation except their all wanted for murder! Everyone here doesn’t exist to the law! 

It sounds stupid, especially when he looks down at the comics crumples into a mess in his palm. 

“Not even a quarter of this happened,” He says. She doesn’t know shit about anything, not about paying for groceries or who not to kill or what happens when you kill so many people that there's nothing you can do to dig a grave deep enough. No mirror you can hide in. 

His chest hurts again. Must be that stupid bullet he can’t get out. 

“It’s not real,” he says again. “Once you die, that’s it.” 

“Killing’s all I’m good for,” the cowboy says behind him. “I can’t stay in no peaceful town.” 

None of them can stay here. 

Her eyes stare back at him, blank and stubborn. She doesn’t deserve this. Not any of it. 

“I need to get a new car,” Logan says, and turns to walk away. 

He’d never thought he’d have a daughter. Sworn it, up and down to anyone who’d ask. He doesn’t want one now. 

_“You’re sick,”_ Caliban whispers in his ear. _“Something’s happening to you, Logan.”_

Logan may not love her. But he can get her across the border. Even an old man can do that much.


End file.
